Life Lessons Learned Playing Ball

“I’m going to drop it!”

At nine years old, my mind screamed these words when a ball came my way. I was right. I dropped it.

I had little confidence. Why should I have? I tried out for the team with a left-handed glove. I was right-handed. My parents said if I made the team, I would get my own glove. Other kids had mitts big enough to hold a watermelon. Signatures of heroes like Mickey Mantle adorned them, along with other words, some that I didn’t understand. Mine, a throwback to another era, was perched awkwardly on my hand.

I was the last one to sign the roster. The coaches mentioned they had thought of cutting me, but didn’t have the heart. The words stung, but I was still happy. I would get my own glove.

My dad and I went to Dobby’s Sports. I had often looked in the window, but dared not enter unless I made the team. I strode in with my dad like I had an audience with the queen. I still have that glove. I will never part with it, even in death.
Even with my own glove, when a fly ball was hit to me, I still screamed, “I’m going to drop it!” The ball finally hit the pocket once – and it stuck. It didn’t take long to build my confidence to where I expected to catch every ball.

Lesson #1 – While natural ability is important, having the heart for something means a lot more. There are many steps to climb to success. I have seen great talent fade when success comes too easy. Determination eventually wins.

Years later, I injured my shoulder. I couldn’t lift my arm. Throwing was impossible for two weeks. Before the injury, I had a great arm. I wondered whether it would ever be as strong.

As it healed, I started throwing the ball. I used my legs, back and other muscles to compensate for my lack of shoulder strength. To make the ball take flight, I had to execute the muscle sequence in the proper order. When my shoulder healed, I could throw the ball even better than before.

Lesson #2 – Sometimes the adversity in life makes us stronger. We have to figure out a better way to do things.

On our way to winning our first Ontario championship, we were in the final game of a best of three series. We were ahead in the bottom of the last inning, but they had runners on second and third with only one out. Their best hitter was up. He hit a rocket between second and third. Somehow our shortstop got there, snagged it and stepped on third for the double play. The game was over.

Lesson #3 – Usually on the way to success, there are moments when the difference between winning and losing are small. Never give up hope.

In softball, if you fail 70% of the time, you are doing well. It is also a team sport.

Lesson #4 – Sometimes it’s not how often you succeed that’s important. It’s when you succeed. Everybody can have a moment of glory on a team. You work together for success.

One season, we had lost only two games until the Ontario final, then lost two straight. In the series, I didn’t get one hit and left 8 runners on base in the final game. I was devastated. I almost quit.

The next year I played and coached. The Squirt team I coached played against the eventual Ontario champions. They beat us 52-0! Yet something happened that changed my life.

The pitcher had a perfect game until a pudgy Italian kid, Umberto, was hit in the stomach. The ball bounced back to the pitcher. Both teams exploded in laughter, including Umberto. He trotted proudly like Babe Ruth to first base.

Lesson #5 – It’s a game. It’s meant to be fun. Life’s the same. Find ways to enjoy it for what it is. It’s not perfect, and you don’t always win, but it still can be fun.

Softball and baseball have taught me valuable lessons, even more than appears here. They’ve allowed me to apply the phase you often hear on the diamond to my life. “I’ve got it!”

How Not to Avoid a Cat-astrophe

You’re going to be a father again!

She didn’t shout these words. Women don’t do this when announcing an addition to the family. They do things like knit booties. They leave subtle hints.

In my case, it was a can of Pounce on the kitchen table, but I am getting ahead of myself. Let me tell the whole story.

Last year we lost our cat, Toby. He was a great friend, but cats are also a responsibility and an expense. While not pleased about his death, I was happy to be free of the extra work.

My wife, Marie, had another opinion. She had had many cats over the years and longed for feline companionship. It didn’t matter that we have two dogs. Having a cat is different.

However, it takes two to make a marriage. Summoning all of my masculine authority, I made it very clear that under no circumstances was she even to think of getting another cat.

Oh, she tried. I was invited into McPhail’s to view various kittens on numerous occasions. I was rock solid. I didn’t flinch. We left the store catless.

Next came the vet clinic. I got updates on stray cats that needed new homes. My little Mother Teresa of the cat world visited them and told me how we would be a positive influence in their lives. I would assure her that her saintly intentions were mixed with my fiendish, selfish desire not to add any more pets to our household.

Marie was determined. There was the social pressure. Ann at church asked me why I didn’t want a cat. Marie expressed her desire to many friends, who sometimes leered at me for not giving in to her desires. I had no trouble being portrayed as the cruel husband, as long as we didn’t take in a stray.

Then it happened! The perfect occasion and the perfect excuse, mixed with the perfect timing.

Marie went to the Mitchell Golf Club with Bonnie for a practice round for a tournament she entered. People often drop off their unwanted cats, I’m told, at golf courses. This kitten wandered up to Marie and rubbed against her. As she put it, “He chose me. There were eight other women and he walked right up to me. I would have never have chosen a cat like him.” Right! I wasn’t falling for that line.

He chose her enough for her to call the course the next day, go pick him up and hide him in our basement, leaving the Pounce on the table to break the news to me gently.

She’s crafty, though. We went golfing with friends after work. I had planned to go directly to the course, but had forgotten my clubs. Marie didn’t complain when I asked her to bring them in her car. She seemed happy about the idea. Strange.

After an enjoyable golf game and dinner with our friends, we came home. I saw the Pounce. My first words were, “Where is he?” I announced in a firm voice that he would be out of the house at the earliest possible opportunity. I was angry. How dare she go against my wishes? How important was my opinion in this relationship? I debated even sleeping on the couch. I was upset.

Then I made the fatal mistake. I crept into the basement to see what the fuss was all about. The huge, friendly eyes of a scrawny cat greeted me. It was obvious that he needed care. I picked him up to see how light he was. He had me at purr.

The next day I mentioned about the cat going back, but like a Popsicle melting on a hot summer day, my intentions disappeared. By evening I announced that we were keeping the cat, as if it had been my idea all along.

The final seal of approval was giving him a name. Marie purposely came up with some terrible ones. She’s sly. By giving me naming rights, the cat was sure to stay.

I struggled to find a name. Then it dawned on me that he was found on the Mitchell Golf Course. His name would be Caddie.

My only victory in all this? She is on poop patrol. Since he is her Caddie, I’m not going to clean the sand traps.